


Love In The Middle of a Firefight

by rosegoldcacti



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ana has no idea how to mother, I mean really weird, M/M, Multi, Other, The canon is basically fucked, Weird Plot Shit, morally dubious redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:48:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldcacti/pseuds/rosegoldcacti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious bounty hunter's file crosses Reaper's desk at Talon, he's forced to start questioning everything he thought about what he did, what he's done, and just how far he'll go to fix it.</p>
<p>Eventual Reaper/76 and Reaper's redemption arc. Kind of. We'll see!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's A War We Can't Ignore

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially, this is my attempt to rewrite an otherwise boring and edgy villain into someone more believable - and mostly just working with the potential Reaper has as a villain to begin with, instead of whatever travesty Blizzard keeps making the poor bastard. 
> 
> Takes place before the Old Soldiers comic, and neither Ana, Gabriel, or Jack know each other are alive or working as mercenaries - for now. (However, all are aware of the existence of Reaper, Soldier 76, and Shrike, for good or bad.)
> 
> The Shrike idea was mostly inspired by the skin of the same name and the fact that a lot of Ana's promotional art uses said skin, without ever describing how she came to be a bounty hunter to begin with. As two out of the five original Overwatch agents put on a mask and changed their name to kill people for money, it didn't seem like much of a stretch for Ana to do the same.

The mission dossier laid on the desk innocently enough. Manila folder. Neatly taped visuals of the target. As mundane as it was, the document might as well have been a bomb, with the stab of panic it sent through Gabriel's core.

Gabriel. That fucking name. Damnit, not Gabriel. It’s Reaper now. Gabriel was dead – at least, most of him was. The odd few fragments of his body ( _"A little under thirty percent,"_ he remembered Doctor Zeigler saying with a smile, as if the fact would improve his vile mood after he woke up to find that the explosion _hadn't_ killed him) that remained, stitched together by medical nanobots and inconsolable hatred – for the world, for his betrayers, most of all for himself.

That was Reaper. And Reaper now stared down at the document that said the woman who mentored him through Overwatch’s early days was alive – not only alive, but active enough to be enough of a thorn in Talon’s side to send their most volatile, least trustworthy agent after her.

Of course, the dossier didn’t just go out and say Ana Amari, former Overwatch officer and the world’s (second) best sniper. It detailed a bounty hunter calling themselves the Shrike – but he’d recognize that cybernetic mask anywhere, Ana’s favorite for night missions. A blue dart, full of tranquilizing biotics, strapped to her left arm. The tail end of a dusty silver braid, peeking from beneath a washed-out violet hijab, only confirmed the theory. She’d gone through the super soldier program with him and Jack – ten years before, of course, and before it truly created the hulking monstrosities that made up most of the world’s militaries now, but enough for some enhancements to allow for combat well into her sixties. Immortality was never among them.

Unless you were the Reaper, he supposed. But that wasn’t worth much of anything. A few million credits for a very high-profile head. Or, more accurately, a head blown against a wall in a dark alley somewhere, and a DNA sample to confirm the hit.

The desk chair groaned in agony as Reaper leaned back, claws digging furrows into the cheap wood of the desk. Captain Ana Amari, alive. He’d assumed the woman he was forced to share his days with – and he was glad of the mask to hide his rage whenever he saw her – had murdered her outright in the sniper duel that secured Widowmaker’s place as the top sniper in the world, before Reaper had even thought of his bloody crusade against the organization that had supposedly wronged him.

He stopped that train of thought where it stood, before it careened into another all-too-familiar wave of hate and shame, usually only ending upon another successful hit and another confirmation that Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes was dead, dead, _dead._

Reaper opened the folder. A fairly standard hit, as contracts go. Two million credits for the capture and delivery of the Shrike alive, one million for their head, half a million for their identity – offered to select Talon agents, transportation to Cairo free of charge, discretion preferred.

Well, he could provide two of those things without even leaving the London base, and he’d make half a million. But that’d just make things too easy.

***

Three hours and twenty-seven minutes later, Reaper was sliding from the deck of the dropship, barking orders to the punks who thought they'd try this mission despite the infamous Reaper taking the job first. Most were young - street kids whose parents were murdered during the Omnic Crisis, or just saw too much death at the hands of the metal being they coexisted with to tolerate their existence. Reaper pitied them, really, the same way he pitied all the criminals he'd trained up in Blackwatch. Some didn't make it through, one extra death, one failed mission enough to throw them back to whatever justice system surrendered them, but enough became good enough agents to give him a firm belief in second chances. Before he'd died, anyway.

But the Talon agents weren't looking for second chances, he knew. They were out for revenge, if they had to give the shells of their lives and morality to get it. Reaper knew the idea far too well to try and console any of them. Firm discipline and hard mentoring was out of the question. Only the dead man would consider that.

A slip of an agent ( _operative,_ he mentally corrected - this isn't fucking Blackwatch) hauled the cargo case from the ship with massive effort, giving the signal for the ship to take off as the case thumped onto the roof with a cloud of dust and grit. The interface in his mask locked onto her - Mara Tucker, callsign Twister, age 19, although he'd be damned if she was a day over 16. Talon wasn't exactly big on background checks, as long as you did your job and didn't look like you were contacting any authorities. Besides, in her bulky tactical armor and full arsenal, he doubted anyone would see anything but a short-ish agent, armed to the teeth with Talon weaponry. 

He wondered what Ana would think, if she knew one of the people hunting her was younger than her own daughter. Hell, from what he'd heard of Fareeha Amari, her own daughter could be among the people hunting her down - not for the hefty bounty, but to put down part of the hotbed of mercenaries and less-than-legal security work that plagued the country whose domestic security was her responsibility. 

A crackle in Reaper's comms was enough to stop that train of thought instantly, followed the the comcheck that preceded any mission. Porter, bulky and slow, hauling shields and medical equipment. Taser, skimpy kid who could move like a whip with his combat knife. Whiskey, second in command to Reaper, a snake of a fucker he'd trust as far as he could throw him. (Admittedly, that was pretty far. As far as Whiskey could throw Reaper.) Ironsides, Sugar, and Johnny, three siblings good at brawling and not much else. Finally, little Twister, popping off safeties as she unpacked the object in the case - a communications blocker, enough to disrupt and mask any surveillance in the area, government or laid down by wily bounty hunters. Except, of course, their own comms. 

"Alright, listen up." The grating in his voice was enough to make the more nervous in his squad twitch - he noticed that excluded the little girl. He wondered if she was insane, or just stupid. "The Shrike isn't as dumb as the rest of you - and we aren't the only ones on her. You wanna maximise the profit, you follow my goddamn orders, or I'll make sure you pay the extra million yourself." Leaving money as his motivation was usually the safest bet, and kept Talon from poking him too closely - he knew most of the people under his command would report on him without a second thought. 

Besides, if Ana was alive - if she'd found a way to live through the headshot that'd put her out of commission - she'd had to have a good reason to go into hiding, leaving a daughter she cared about more than her own life. 

And if Reaper had learned anything in his long and frankly Quixotic attempt to get information from Talon, it was that you really couldn't trust anyone. 

He gave the command to move out, and the squad slid into the night.


	2. Waging Silence on our Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but mostly trying to crank the setting out. Next chapter will finally have something more interesting with people you know, but smut's not coming for a looong time. Jack isn't even slated to show up for another three chapters, so don't get too excited for that.
> 
> For now, enjoy the shitshow that is Talon!

Reaper generally preferred to work alone on Talon missions, all his time in the military be damned. It was nearly impossible to do anything when orders had a barely tenuous possibility of being obeyed, and what he’d thought were standard combat signals were ignored or misunderstood – “flash out” meant the enemy tried to flashbang them, not for three of the brain-dead ingrates to hurl their own stun grenades into the building Reaper was making every attempt to breach.

So to say he was optimistic about the mission was a blatant fucking lie.

The eight agents (operatives, goddamnit) thumped heavily down the fire escape of the building they’d been dropped onto, screeching supports and thick bursts of rust proving that, for once, their intel was good and the apartment building was abandoned.

Five, four, three stories down, Whiskey and Porter paused, removing a window far more quietly than Reaper could have hoped for, and leaping in to set up the communications scrambler and a temporary medbay. He considered leaving them to defend it – any communications outage would immediately be detected, and would have less than an hour to find, extract, and get out of dodge, and more firepower would mean buying more time when the scrambler was discovered.

When, not if. Reaper wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or pleased at the incompetence of the world’s supposedly most dangerous terrorist organization.

But what the hell, here he was.

“Whiskey, Porter, stay at this position. Intel says the target is a sniper – keep your fucking heads down, and keep an eye out.

“We can’t look out if we keep our heads down,” Whiskey whined. God, he hated the asshole. But as a former PMC, he was probably one of the most qualified people in Talon that didn’t fit the requirement of Special Weapon – among which was Reaper and the woman he hated almost as much as he hated himself. But Whiskey was a special animal – cruel and annoying, an asshole who idolized Reaper as long as he was within earshot. Coward.

Instead of ripping his pouting throat out with his bare – gloved – hands, Reaper only strolled towards him and let the mask tip carefully to one side.

“Then you’ll just have to manage, won’t you?” A beat, head straightening. “Question my orders again, and I’ll throw you off the fucking roof.” Not much loss if that ended up happening. Really, he’d be doing the world a service. Even if it did give him a reputation as an edgy, temperamental douchebag - it was still better than the real thing.

The real not-quite-man behind the mask.

“Ironsides, you’re third, stay on me. Twister, watch our backs. Move out – and keep. Your. Heads. Down.”

They started down again, eventually clobbering into the street, with a harsh bark from Reaper when Johnny – another meathead type, a skinhead with more tattoos than brains – tripped and nearly sent his gun clattering into a sewage drain.

Really, if this was all the Omnic rights movement were up against, he really didn’t think they had much to worry about. Except for Widowmaker. And whatever other poor brainwashed souls were with her. And, of course, the Reaper – but collectively, he was sure Talon couldn’t have more than a few dozen such operatives – but for all he knew, they had hundreds stored in the giant vats he remembered so well from his Overwatch days.

When he’d gone through the enhancement program with Jack. Needles, and breathless rooms, and Jack’s solid chest and big hands grabbing for support through the pain. Through other things, too.

Reaper stabbed those memories aside, distracting himself by shaking Johnny like a rag doll by the scruff of his jacket, hissing something stupid about ending his life ten different ways with just his pinkie finger, before moving out again.

They traveled in a neat spread – not quite close enough to be in military formation, just far enough to minimize damage from traps. The half-moon beating off the buildings into weak white light, turning black suits and tan buildings into deep violet and faded blue. The hum of traffic, two streets over – the main road they had to avoid – blocked any echoes their booted footfalls might have caused.

Two more blocks, a right turn. The traffic’s  hum was turning into monotony. No one on a late-night stroll through the deserted parks they skirted, using the trees for cover from the rooftops above. The silence was getting oppressive, his squad shifting their gear uncomfortably. Reaper glanced back at the shifting sounds of a safety popping on and off. He wondered if it was the little girl’s first op. If she’d had to kill someone before, or take a bounty. He wondered if it mattered.

Sirens, distant but coming closer. The police had caught onto their blocker. He hoped Whiskey pissed himself.

A blue flash on the opposite building caught his eye. The top of a triangle, glowing. Suddenly the liquid shift of fabric - and white glare of the moon off a scope.

Reaper opened his mouth to order everyone down.

The crack of a shot.

And little Mara dropped like a stone.


End file.
